


oh, coloured faces, flaxom old places

by Kt_fairy



Series: let the river rush in [10]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Aging, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Domestic Fluff, Hand Jobs, James In A Dress, M/M, Old Married Couple, Period Typical Attitudes, Victorian Attitudes, body issues, gratuitous cannons, jfj realises he is mortal, navy stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:25:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23360119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kt_fairy/pseuds/Kt_fairy
Summary: The bones of James’ face were always thrown into relief by a certain type of light, and he had retained his health well enough over the past year or two that it no longer gave him the appearance of wasting away. James simply looked tired. His body had been put through so much over its forty-seven years that his dutiful hard work often resulted in a period of thorough exhaustion that might last a week or a day, it was up to the deciding hand of Fate.James almost tripped as he ascended the stairs, his long legs carrying him ponderously upwards rather than taking the steps at his usual sprightly pace. He stopped a stair below where Francis stood, his hand holding onto the banister like he needed the support, and gave him a wan smile. “Been rather a long day, Francis.”ORTime, tide, and technology wait for no man, and the years always catch up with you.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Series: let the river rush in [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1458220
Comments: 39
Kudos: 65





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Before we were quarantined, MsKingBean and I went to Portsmouth and got a detailed talk on gunnery from a very nice man on [ HMS Warrior ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/HMS_Warrior_\(1860\)#Armour). And then another nice man told us all about her sea-trials where they fired guns at her from point blank range, because everyone in the Royal Navy was a mad lad.
> 
> And then MsKingBean demanded a fic with cannons and HMS Warrior in it, and as we are bwothas, I owed it to her. I shower a million thanks upon her lovely head for making this make sense.
> 
>   
> (I put the tags for both chapters up, so that's all what you have to look forward to.)

**_\- 1861_ **

“...they were in my day, eh?”

“Say again?”

Henry stepped in closer, his arm brushing against Francis’ shoulder as he shouted directly into his ringing ear. “I say, damned sight louder than they were in our day, eh!”

“Indeed.”

“If we had these on _Excellent,_ why - I’d be frightfully deaf,” Henry shifted his weight so he was leaning on his cane, fist resting on his hip as he looked over at the inspectors and dignitaries from the Admiralty Board and the Government. They were all gathered around one of _HMS Valorous'_ gunports like a flock of worried hens, peering out to see the effect the hulking 68-pounder cannon had on the Royal Navy’s brand new leviathan.

_HMS Warrior_ was one great black iron hull, truly vast in length yet elegant in a cold, austere manner, sitting smoothly on the rocking waters of the Thames estuary with all the looming threat of some great deep sea beast. Just looking upon her made Francis feel as if sharp teeth were bared towards his throat, and despite the ringing in his ears and the thick smoke clogging his lungs from the cannon fire, he was glad he was below the familiar wooden decks on _Valorous_ instead of that great metal thing which was so perfectly built to destroy _._

“Be frightfully frightened too,” Henry mused as James, who was stood two gun stations along the deck and just visible above all the suited men, began describing the design of the powerful cannons. They were the same that lined _Warrior's_ own gun deck, and had failed to make a dent in her thick hull when fired at her from only ten yards away. “Beast of a weapon for a beast of a ship, I say," Henry declared. "We are going to have to build a whole new Navy just to keep up with our mistress _Warrior_.”

“What will the French build in response?” Francis asked, and Henry slid him a knowing look as one of the civil servants called Henry over for a word.

“ _Quoi en effet,_ Crozier old boy,” he declared in his robust English accent, giving his cane two sharp taps on the deck before lending his attention to the slight, vaguely hunched and bespectacled man who had spent the day becoming increasingly startled by Captain Le Vesconte’s boisterous manner.  
  


Francis smiled to himself, ducking to look out of a gunport as the Thames tug boats pushed _Valorous_ closer to that great shining ship which showed not one sign of the vigorous testing James was expertly putting her hull through. The same could not be said for James’ voice, the smooth baritone roughened at the edges by extensive talking and gun-smoke, nor the exactness of his posture - which he had kept even while scurvy had been ravaging him - that had faded as the day wore on in to a long afternoon.

Mere months after the Crimean war had ended in 1856, Palmeston’s government had declared war on China for a second time. Which had sent James into a ranting rage; dire curses and shaking hands turning into sullen silence when his posting to _Amethyst_ came and sent him off again into war. 

This one had almost killed him - and with a tally of almost twenty occasions where James could have died over his, at the time, forty-three years, Francis did not take that lightly. Nor did James, who had threatened to resign his commission entirely after being invalided home with typhus and malaria, and to retain their most heroic and lauded officer the Admiralty had put him behind a desk in Whitehall. 

James had taken Henry with him to his posting of ‘Naval Director-General of Artillery’ at the War Office, where they now inspected and commissioned the ordinance and armaments for the Navy’s ships.

The position had done him no harm, Francis thought as he looked over at James who was saying something to the Second Naval Lord while half of the gun crew used a heavy pulley system to haul the great cannon in from the gunport for it to be reloaded. He was as dashing and elegant a figure as always in his Commodore’s uniform, his hair still thick and lustrous even with the grey making bold inroads into the rich brown. He wore even that well, the silver catching the bright lamp light which was far kinder to James’ still summer gold skin than everyone else’s pale October complexions.

James, and by default Henry also, had been given charge of the outfitting and sea trials of _Warrior’s_ armaments, and as far as Francis's limited experience could tell, they had done a fine job. He was pleased, as always, to see James showing the skill and intelligence that had always assured his success in the Navy, speaking clearly and directly to those members of the Navy Board and Parliament about things that half of them hadn't the faintest grasp of.

Francis would be graced with their attention later. He had become involved when anxieties arose over the effect all of the iron on _Warrior_ (colossal iron engines, iron girders bracing the decks, iron boilers, all encased in a four inch thick solid iron hull) would have on the delicate equipment ships navigated by. The answer was simple; the compasses would have to be raised clear of the deck to work at all, but the Navy liked a professional opinion these days, and James was always willing to have Francis’ position in the Royal Society acknowledged. 

In the meantime Francis kept close to the warmth of the galley and out of the way of the men hurrying up with heavy bags of powder, knowing full well that it was only a matter of time before James’ gaze, which had not lost it’s captain’s awareness for malingerers, landed on him. Francis straightened on instinct when he met James’ eyes, giving him a look that had amusement flashing across James' face before he turned back to the cannon.

Francis had seen James at work before - either at close range when he was showing off with gunnery displays, or at a distance when Sevastopol was being blasted into the dirt of the Crimean Peninsula - and knew that he was making it look easy as he changed the angle of the 68-pounder with barely a glance at the brass sighting mechanism mounted to the back of the cannon. He primed the goose quill fuse with fulminate of mercury while describing the lattice of teak that braced _Warrior’s_ armoured hull, before placing the percussion cap in place. He took up the trigger line connected to the firing hammer, then stepped smartly back along with the rest of the gun crew and recklessly fired one of the navy's heaviest guns at the navy’s pride and joy at almost point blank range. 

The blast was felt rather than heard, hitting you on the breast bone like a open handed slap as a thick smoke burned at your noise filled the deck. The ship listed slightly as the ten-foot cannon recoiled with immense force, jerking to a halt as the thick ropes bracing it to the hull pulled taut, causing it to roll back until it was half stuck out of the gunport once more.

When the acrid smoke - and alarm - had cleared, Henry swept in to take questions, using demonstrative sweeps of his cane to direct everyone’s marvel towards _Warrior,_ who still bore not a single mark. James said something to the man who was sponging out the barrel that earned him a yellow toothed smile, and then stepped away, smoothly ducking his distinguished head to avoid a beam as he strode across the deck. 

Francis had always felt old and plodding when James was like this, all well founded confidence and ease of manner, but the crooked way James smiled at him made it matter less. 

“The day is going well, James.”

“I rather thought so,” James said a little loudly, flicking his hair out of his eyes. "It is very easy to dazzle with a flash and a bang."

"You're being modest again."

"Speak up, Francis. It’s loud over there."

"You are being _modest again."_

"I know, frightful isn't it," James sighed as he glanced back at where Henry was giving the Cabinet minister speaking a very fierce look. "I was putting my faith and reputation in the hands of the Almighty and the Thames Iron Works with that last one,” he said, then angled himself closer to Francis as he widened his eyes slightly in a put on look of horror. “Imagine if I had put a hole in the damn thing!”

“We would have had to throw everyone overboard and sail for the Indies.”

A silent laugh rolled through James, and he jerked his head towards Henry. “Do not give Dundy any ideas. He’s been pining terribly for Mrs Le Vesconte and the sprogs, and would happily abscond.”

Francis could sympathise with that somewhat, as over the past few weeks James had spent most of his time going to Greenwich or out to where _Warrior_ was moored on the Thames Estuary. It was not such a great, painful absence, not like when he had been off around the Mediterranean or to China, but it still made Francis smile to have this moment of attention from James who as flushed bright with success. 

“Now would you believe it,” Henry huffed as he appeared at James’ shoulder, flicking open the button holding his frock coat closed over his rather well upholstered stomach with a irritated motion of his hand . “They want us to fire the 110-pounders at her now! They’ll have us sink the blasted thing before she’s even put to sea!”

“I do not think I shall stay around to watch that, gentlemen. It will make the day rather long for me,” Francis said with an apologetic glance up at James who waved it away with an easy smile, gallant as always when it came to matter's of Francis' age.

“Of course, Francis.”

“Don’t blame you one bit, old boy,” Henry piped up. “After having to go and apologise to ol’ Cochrane for blasting the main armaments at his ship, I should think any dinner we might get in Shoeburyness would _not_ be worth the wait.”

“No,” James sighed, giving Henry an indulgent look, then he turned to Francis. “I would not have you stand about for the sake of my vanity. It will only be a louder version of what you have already had to stand through."

“Your work is no vanity," Francis protested. "But I could do without the din, yes.”

“And," Henry cut in before James could reply. "I should think you would want to be very far away in case Sir Jas sinks her.”

“I will not _sink her_ , Dundy.”

Francis watched their bickering with no small amount of amusement. Sometimes it was only James’ greying hair and the lines on their faces that gave away that they were heading rapidly towards fifty and were not in fact spirited midshipmen.

He raised an eyebrow when Henry clapped James on the back and turned a conspiratorial look on Francis. 

“I shall ensure this fine fellow is delivered to you safe and sound - if fully deaf - this evening, if you take this lot - ” he jerked his head towards the crowd of worthies, “ - right now and blind them with your mastery of magnets and compasses. Leaving them like great fat gaping fish and unable to ask me anymore damned-fool questions!”

* ***** *

The clock on the mantle hesitated in its ticking, and Francis glanced up at it as the grandfather clock in the hallway downstairs rang in nine o’clock. He pulled the pocket watch out from his waistcoat, the golden floral inlays on the silver lid catching the light as he checked the time out of a habit born from years of living by the sound of a ship’s bell.

That James was late home, or might not be returning at all this evening, was of little concern or bother to Francis. James was still young enough to be easily pulled into friendly socialising, and his constitution battered enough that he was no doubt fast asleep in the Le Vesconte's guest room. Francis did not mind being left alone; with age and contentment had come a quieting of the war within himself that meant he no longer despised his own company so. 

He tucked the watch back into his pocket and stretched out his legs one by one, carefully setting aside the manuscript of Ross’ memoirs that he had been encouraging his friend to write to fill Ann's absence. The thought of Ann pulled sharply at Francis’ heart and he sighed deeply in the almost silent room, laying his hand on the pile of papers as his thoughts turned to James.

Duty had not called James away from England, and rarely from London, since he had been sent home from China in ‘57. The past four years had been the longest stretch of time they had spent living together, and Francis had made sure never to allow James’ presence - the incessant scratch of pen or pencil on paper, the scent of his hair, the weight of his hand in Francis or the warmth of his body, the rich sound of his voice - to become commonplace. China could have stolen him from Francis with far more ease than the Arctic had, which was a terrifying thought in itself, and Francis would not take James being here with him for granted.

Shaking himself from the melancholy direction of those thoughts, Francis got to his feet with a grunt, resolving to go to bed before he became a brooding old man, and went to bank the fire to save the maid from having to do it.

He had hardly reached the brass poker when there came a familiar three clamorous rings on the front door bell, and Francis stepped out into the landing as the rattle of keys and the sharp sound of Daisy's brisk footsteps moved across the tiled hallway.

“Ah!” came Henry’s cheerful voice when the front door clicked open. “Good evening Davies! Hale and hearty as always, I see.”

“Thank you, captain - good evening.”

“I have a delivery of a Sir Jas for you, where might I drop him?”

“I am perfectly capable, Dundy,” James sighed, voice strained, and Francis descended the stairs to the half landing so he could see the small, lamp lit crowd on the front step; Henry with his hat in hand, cautiously watching as James let Daisy move the skirts of her dark grey housekeepers dress out of the way so he could step through the front door. “Hello, Daisy.”

“Sir,” she said gently, the light from the lamp she held racing over the paintings on the walls and catching the grey in her neatly scraped back red hair as she placed it down on the table beside where James had thrown his hat.

“I smell frightfully of gun smoke,” James said as he had two attempts at pulling off his gloves.“I know it's rather late, but might I have a bath drawn?”

“Of course, sir,” Daisy said, taking his greatcoat and scarf. “I shall see to it right away.”

“Thank you, Daisy,” James sighed in the grateful way of the very tired, turning to wish Henry a goodnight before crossing the hallway with long, heavy strides.

Francis ducked his head enough to catch Henry’s eye and give him a nod of thanks which was returned with a wave as Henry turned to leave with a swing of his cane. Then he turned his attention to James who was making slow, not wholly steady progress up the stairs towards him.

The bones of James’ face were always thrown into relief by a certain type of light, and he had retained his health well enough over the past year or two that it no longer gave him the appearance of wasting away. James simply looked tired. His body had been put through so much over its forty-seven years that his dutiful hard work often resulted in a period of thorough exhaustion that might last a week or a day, it was up to the deciding hand of Fate. 

James almost tripped as he ascended the stairs, his long legs carrying him ponderously upwards rather than taking the steps at his usual sprightly pace. He stopped a stair below where Francis stood, his hand holding onto the banister like he needed the support, and gave him a wan smile. 

“Been rather a long day, Francis,” James said softly, putting up no protest when Francis moved to slip his and around James’ middle, almost flinching at the thick scent of burning hot metal and bitter gunpowder clinging to every part of him. Over the years Francis had come to appreciate the faint, lingering smell if gunpowder on James’ hair and skin, yet this was so strong that it was almost unpleasant. The metallic smell was not of blood, however, so Francis counted himself lucky as he guided James up the remaining flight of stairs, a long the landing, and then up again and into his own bedroom, keeping out of the way of the maid and the boy bringing the copper tub into James’ room to fill.

"I was perfectly fine until halfway through dinner," James explained, sitting down heavily on the end of Francis’ bed. "Dundy tried to make me stay - he had me for dinner, of course. The establishments of Shoeburyness were never going to be up to par -” he smiled fondly as he fumbled with his cravat. “But Charlotte understood my want to be at home."

"Of course," Francis said gently, taking James’ cravat and folding it neatly. “Sometimes all a man wants is his own bed.”

“And to see you also,” James gave him a tired smile as he wriggled out of his dress coat, ruining the neatly tucked in corners of Francis’ counterpane. “Although I think I have only burdened you with my fatigue.”

“Nonsense, you are no burden,” Francis muttered, removing James’ coat, and the smell of smoke, from his bed and put it aside to be laundered. He paused when he turned back, pushing down a worry at how grey James looked, and the bruised dark circles under his eyes. “I do count myself lucky your hands are not wandering like they tend to when you are drunk.”

“ _Count yourself lucky_ ,” James scoffed in an approximation of a County Down accent, toeing off one boot and then crossing his leg over his knee to drag off the other. He set them up straight and then shoved them over to the side with his foot, grumbling when they inevitably fell over.

Francis went to set the boots aside, letting out a breath of surprise when he straightened and James pitched forward to rest his cheek against Francis’ middle. James let out a great, weary sigh, shifting just enough to avoid the buttons of Francis’ waistcoat before relaxing into him. 

Francis pushed his fingers through James’ hair that hardly had a tangle in it he kept it so well, letting it fall away from the back of his neck so Francis could rest his hand there. He smoothed his thumb over the soft skin before slipping his fingers under the starched collar of James' shirt to lay his palm between his shoulder blades, feeling as James gradually matched the tempo of his breathing to Francis.

James rubbed his cheek against the silk thread of Francis' dark green waistcoat, putting him in mind of a ship's cat of a cold morning, and grumbled something before he sighed deeply once again and sat up. “I feel like treacle, Francis. I regret asking for a bath and not simply falling into bed.”

“I know. But you will thank yourself in the morning.” Francis tried not to sound like a nanny while he still had most of his hand inside of James’ shirt. Then tried to keep the amusement out of his voice as he said, “you do rather have the smell of the day about you.”

James’ expression changed very little, but his eyes narrowed just enough that Francis felt the force of the withering look being directed at him.

“And I shall thank you for _that_ in the morning,” James drawled, making Francis go and fetch his dressing down as he stood to finish undressing, slipping in to the well worn garment with a soft, contented sigh.

  
  


James' bedroom always had a pleasing scent to it; not quite as heady as the decadent rooms of the madams that officers frequented, nor soft and floral like that of a lady. After twelve years, if Francis were to be honest, it was had just become James' light, slightly dandyish smell. That this evening was heightened by the steaming, orange scented water in the copper bath that was glinting in the firelight.

James groaned at the sight, backing up against the door to close it. His loose-limbed tiredness gave him a look of decadence as he slowly crossed the darkened room, stepping in to the pool of warm firelight that seemed (to Francis at least) to make all the apricot silk James was wrapped up in glow as he bent to dip his fingers into the water.

He straightened, and stood slump shouldered in the middle of the room for a moment, bare toes curling into the carpet, before tugging open his dressing gown. He was an image of exhaustion, and Francis would have felt bad for not insisting he sleep if he had not seen James look a damn sight worse than this before.

James became unwieldy when he was overtaxed, seeming to misplace how far his feet and hands were from the rest of his body. Francis took his worn soft dressing down so James would not fling it somewhere, then took James’ hand to steady him when he stepped into the water, supporting his elbow as he sat heavily, the soapy water sloshing against the sides of the tub. 

“I am going to fall asleep in here,” James proclaimed once he had completed the seemingly impossible task of folding his legs so only his knees showed above the water, his heavy lidded eyes watching Francis as he collected the seat from James’ dressing table so he might sit by him. It was not their habit to sit with the other while they bathed, but as James had said that he had made the effort of coming home to see Francis, he thought he might keep him company.

"Charlotte sends her greetings to you, by the way,” James said as he halfheartedly rubbed his soap into a flannel. “As does Bridgens.”

“I hear he has taken well to being a tutor.”

“He has been teaching the ‘Little Vesconte’s’ all sorts; Sarah is a spirited little poet, and shall intimidate every man she ever meets, which is why Dundy dotes on her so, of course,” James said conversationally as he began scrubbing at himself a tad too hard. “But the junior Henry is abandoning the sciences for dreams of the quarterdeck. And I told him, the navy and science can work together perfectly well, and may even improve him.”

“He will go far with ‘ _James Fitzjames_ ’ for middle names, at any rate,” Francis quipped, and James snorted, sending a ripple through the water.

“He can console himself with Alice _Fitzjames_ Charlewood when they are older,” James said as he rubbed the cloth over his face. “James _Francis_ has recovered remarkably from his stammer, little Charlotte Graham is a rascal still but Bridgens has given her a fascination for the abacus.” James sighed, abandoning the flannel to press the heels of his hands against his eyes. “And Rose is of course an infant and so is delightful.”

“I am glad to hear they are all well,” Francis said. He raised his eyebrows when James let his head drop against the back of the tub with a faint clunk, the enticing long line of his bared throat and elegant sloping shoulders lessened slightly by dark shadows of his face and the bleary, heavy lidded look he gave Francis.

“M’sorry I’m home so late. An' in such a state,” James said in such a quiet, rough edged voice that Francis sat forward in his chair.

“It is no matter,” he said kindly. “And you are not so late.”

“I know. Wanted so be home. Missed you,” James smiled sleepily, reaching out to pat Francis on the leg, curling his fingers into the seam of his trousers. “All the dolts in parliament and the Admiralty kept me.”

Francis did not comment, as by now he could easily spot when James was about to drop off. His dark lashes fluttered against his cheek as he let go of Francis, the heaviness in his limbs seeping away as he became still with sleep. 

Francis watched James a moment. His chest rose and fell with his steady, shallow breathing as he slept like man with a true, bone weariness, rather than the sprawling snores Francis had been used to when James would come home filthy drunk after a night of being high-spirited and young. Rather than the shallow, rapid, raspy breathing that haunted Francis when he was unless. 

Francis peered at his pocket watch, deciding to let James sleep for a little while. He moved closer, being careful not to jostle James’ hand that was hanging over the side of the tub, and reached out to push a lock of grey hair from his forehead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the next chapter will be up tomorrow. It needs a bit of caulking but it's not like I have anywhere to be.
> 
> Dundy's robust Englishness is for you Lenka!!
> 
> (I put a Commander James Fitzjames as well because I fucking hate the dates on his updated tag? Just put (The Terror) as that's the media he's from, it's not that deep. Anyway, old lady rant over. Enjoy!)
> 
> NOW WITH [ ART](https://matt-j-freeman.tumblr.com/post/615568339125846016/this-is-entirely-pianodoesterror-s-fault-who)


	2. Chapter 2

Some of the early symptoms of typhoid fever were a headache and, more rarely, a nose bleed. James had known that of course, having seen nine-tenths of the Royal Navy laid low with it in the first China war; but after all that had occurred in the Arctic, feeling the hot rush of his own blood pouring down his upper lip as his temples throbbed could only grip him with a fevered terror. 

Typhus was a thing to fear as much as scurvy - even more so, as the cure was not so tragically simple as fresh food. Malaria too was a concern, a relapse looming over James’ sickbed and worrying the ship’s doctor and his first lieutenant no end. Only second lieutenant Jopson understood what had brought James to panic, and he had turned _HMS Amethyst’s_ stores inside out looking for even the smallest sign of unsatisfactory supplies. 

For three weeks he had laid there in his fine captains bunk with his stomach twisting in agony, sweating and delirious and spouting all sorts of rubbish. He was lucky that he had Mr Bridgens’ discretion and understanding in all matters, and James had been very sorry that some of his incoherent pleas to Francis about ending it had upset the kindly man so.

Which was far more sorry than he had been while being a very poor patient indeed during his convalescence in Brighton; his foul temper at having been invalided home like a sickly old man only made worse by being as weak as a kitten. 

It was irresponsible to carry on as if he was not weakened by all that had happened to him. Perseverance in this instance would not make up for any lack of sense, it would only kill him. For what? The chance at being an Admiral? That would matter little if the obtaining of it killed him.

The first time he went to China he had not given much of a thought to his mortality; even through the haze of pain from being shot he had not thought that he might actually die. Youth, he had come to know, had very little concern for its impending demise, and scurvy's lingering effects had given him a great deal of time to consider that he might actually _be_ mortal. Seeing the relief from Dundy and Francis and the others when he had managed to cling on to this life had been affecting, of course, and the weeping, inconsolable joy of William and Elizabeth on his return had made him realise that his death would not occur in a vacuum. That he would leave the world more loved than when he entered it - which was either rather a bleak thought for a Tuesday morning, or rather consoling, who can tell.

If he had met his downfall in a shivering, feverish mess of enteric fever and malaria while doing bloody Palmerston’s sordid business in China yet again, then what was left of him would have been laid to rest half the world away from William. From Dundy. And of course, from Francis.

Even if his weakened consitution had not forced the matter, James had resolved to do better by Francis. The Claddagh he had accepted was not a thing gifted lightly, and James should have given more thought to that, rather than letting the navy use up even more of his youth than it already had. He had worn the ring about his neck most days, when it was safe to do so, but, if he was feeling particularly 'wifely', sometimes on his ring finger.

As he was now, the gold catching in the dim early morning light as James finished pulling the slack out of the aesthetically pleasing spiral lacing of his stays (the magazines called them corsets these days, but it was all the same thing). He turned to face the large dressing mirror, considering himself as he trailed his fingers over the pale yellow embroidered flowers that followed the inward curve of the garment.

James had never been one for tight-lacing. Dressing this way was not an act of vanity, no matter how well he thought he looked at times, nor how pleased Francis could be with how the cut of the gowns showed off some parts of him and accentuated others. Like his waist, which had inevitably softened somewhat in his middle-age. He remained rather trim for a man of his years who spent his days at a desk, even if his figure was not as neat and elegantly narrow as it had once been. (Dundy, of course, carried all his padding with dashing ease. The git.)

Some days James revelled in the fact that he had managed to live long enough to become soft at all. But on others, like today, when he wanted to be far, far away from Commodore Sir James Fitzjames and all the strain and hard work that had him dreaming of iron hulls and powder cartridges, he wanted to be laced tighter. To match the image in his head, James thought as he ran his fingers down the lacing of his stays, and not feel so much like himself.

James wrapped the cord around his fingers and tugged it hard enough that the steel stays pressed into his ribs, wincing when his flesh was pinched. There was a time when James would have let it hurt him, but thoughtlessly pushing himself in such a way was for his younger, less happy days. He relaxed his hold on the cord, letting the stays loosen just enough for him to breathe without pain, then threaded the cord back through the bottom eyelets and knotted it securely. 

He had forgone ever purchasing a hoop or a cage crinoline as he liked being able to move and sit (and occasionally let Francis slip a hand under his skirts) with a certain degree of freedom, so continued with his layers of frightfully old fashioned quilted petticoats and a loose linen blouse before stepping into his gauze lined skirt and day bodice, both made of a fine copper satin that had red flowers woven into the fabric.

It was an expensive material for a dress to wear about the house, but Francis said he liked the colour on James so he had been powerless to argue over the expense. James brushed his hands over the skirt, making sure the pleats hung properly, before taking another look at himself in the mirror, much happier as he ran his hands over his waist again.

He adjusted the lace of his blouse that poked out from the cuffs of the bodice that were rather flitted compared to the fashionable wide pagoda sleeve, then threw a look over his shoulder towards his bed, smiling when he found Francis propped up on an elbow watching him languidly. A sight that made a warmth run through James.

"Good morning,” James smiled, voice still a little scratchy from yesterday.

"Indeed," Francis agreed slowly, blue eyes twinkling as James felt himself blush.

He turned, letting the skirts swirl lightly around his ankles for the simple pleasure of it, and picked up the tea cup from his dressing table as he went to perch on the edge of the bed. “I brought you tea. I know you don't mind it going cold."

“Oh,” Francis breathed, pushing himself up to sit against the headboard with a huff of effort. He ran a hand though his sleep mussed hair, the daylight catching all the auburn and gold that remained amongst the silver, rumpled nightshirt pulling taut over his shoulder as he reached to take the saucer from James’ hands. “Thank you,” he said as he took a sip, eyes flicking to the ring on James’ finger before glancing at the half opened curtains. “I see you have risen early to bother Daisy.”  
  


“I can boil enough water for tea and a shave, thank you very much,” James cast Francis a look when he grinned, reaching out to lay his hand over the fine, firm shape of Francis’ thigh. 

“You have a full day of writing reports on the sea trials, I take it?”

“No,” James sighed heavily, pressing a hand to his middle as his breath was slightly constricted. “Dundy said he would get the bones of it done and then hand it to me for finishing.” 

Dundy had never shirked a duty in his life. Some people took him to be lightheaded and therefore incompetent, James had always known him to be as intelligent and fine an officer as he was a friend. He always took his weight of any work there was to do, but James knew Dundy had pushed this point because of how fatigued James had been last night. He could hardly remember getting home, let alone the bath he had apparently had, and even though he knew his health was not nearly as rude as it had been, a part of him hated that he needed to be accommodated like this.

“I thought I would go over the household books and bills and such,” he said, smoothing his hand higher up Francis’ leg. Despite weeks without any intimacy between them he neither noticed nor reacted, which did not surprise James. Passion was often one of the penalties paid for a long, comfortable romance like theirs. “A change is as good as a rest and all that.”

“I do _just_ about manage, being but a man, to keep the house in order while you are gone,” Francis said without much bite, eyebrows raising when he finally noticed the path James’ hand was taking. 

“I neither condemn nor complain,” James said, shifting closer to Francis and lewdly wetting a finger before dipping his hand under the warm blankets to slip between Francis' legs. “I simply feel I have been neglecting my wifely duties.”

Francis’ jolted, eyes wide, and he moved quickly to place the tea cup down with a clatter on the bedside table, shifting to allow James’ questing hand its liberty. "There's no accounts back there," he gasped, a faint flush rising in his cheeks when James carefully pressed a finger against him until it slid in to the second knuckle. Flush darkening when James began to move his hand as well as the angle allowed. 

They had become far more at ease with themselves and their pleasures over their years together. Francis had only grown in comfort and confidence about receiving a buggering, but he still tended to blush as if he had never been touched before when James paid him these attentions.

“Would be quite a surprise if there was, I must say,” James grinned as he eased his hand away and up into Francis’ nightshirt to wrap around his hard prick. 

Francis groaned at the contact. He reached out to cup James’ cheek, his hand only bearing the calluses of a pen these days, and drew him close. James did not mind the taste of tea of sleep, nor the rasp of stubble, and took hold of Francis’ nightshirt for balance as he pitched forward to kiss him, twisting his fist over Francis' cock in the way that he knew he liked. 

James smiled against Francis’ lips when he groaned deep in his chest, and kissed down his prickly cheek and along the soft line of Francis’ jaw, using the grip on his nightshirt to pull it open so he could land kisses to the freckles that ran over Francis’ shoulder and the base of his throat. Francis swore above him, blankets falling away as he writhed and pushed up into James' grip, his hand running all over James's shoulders and down the exaggerated curve of his back to rest at the top of his skirts. He could just feel the pressure of Francis’ clenching grip, and James gave Francis a sloppy kiss as he reached his peak, James's own prick twitching in sympathy beneath all his layers of skirts.

He pulled his hand out from Francis nightshirt, nuzzling gently into the side of his face as Francis' breathing slowly evened out.

"Good morning indeed," Francis murmured. His voice was somehow still light even though his thick accent rumbled out of him, giving James a slightly dazed smile as he ran his hand over his forearm.

James returned the smile, giving Francis a soft kiss that lingered until he gripped James’ waist in both hands. He knew Francis would notice the tightness of his lacing, and felt silly to be so concerned by something so small. 

He sat back, giving Francis one last kiss on the temple, then stood.

Francis reached for him, catching his wrist gently. “James?”

“I simply wished to do that for you, my darling.” 

“ _James_!”

“Can I not wish to bring you pleasure? I think you always look very well in my bed,” James said softly, brushing the back of his clean hand over Francis’ heated cheek. “And especially so this morning.”

Francis never looked wholly convinced by any compliment or flattery, yet James caught the telling pink on his neck and bent to kiss it, laughing when Francis squirmed away.

"Besides, you are required at Greenwich Observatory this morning to teach navigation," James reminded him, and received a grunt of acknowledgement in return.

James cleaned his hands in the wash basin and went to sit at his dressing table, dropping down before the mirror a little heavier than he needed to so the skirts puffed up lightly around his legs. He passed a damp hand through his hair that was as fluffy as always after he had washed it, fingers trailing slowly through the silver that was progressing backwards from his temples. He was not sure how he felt about it, nor of how it was transforming him from dashing to dignified, but he was not vain enough to do something about it.

His gaze shifted in the reflection to his bed, watching Francis slowly get up and slip into his own brown paisley dressing gown. James picked up his brush, running a fingertip over the tortoiseshell before applying it to the bottom of his hair, tracking Francis as he stepped around the bed, detouring from his path to the door to drop a kiss to James' hair. "I think you look very lovely this morning," he whispered, blue eyes catching James' gaze in the mirror as he kissed him once again on the cheek before departing for his own room, leaving James to brush his hair with a slightly helpless quirk of a smile on his face.

  
  


* ***** *

James did not know how men could claim tiredness or a need to relax at their club after a day spent in an office, when at home their wife or sister or mother was having to work as hard as any second lieutenant to keep their home ship shape and orderly.

James liked to see to the house; the lists and inspections and books of accounts and diaries were not so different from captaining a ship, and he relished doing tasks that were the very opposite of what anyone might ever expect of him.

It was not women’s work, it was his. Daisy had become quite used to the jarring sight of a waistcoated, be-trousered gentleman in the pantry or kitchen, but then she was notoriously unflappable. 

He had no idea how long she had known about his dresses, or indeed how, as she had never said one word about it. She had simply left a neat pile of properly laundered petticoats amongst his linen one day, and from then on there had been a growing, silent understanding between the three of them that, after they had enough money to promote her to housekeeper, kept maids below stairs or out at markets on days like this. 

In the morning he and Daisy had discussed the Charlewood’s coming to visit next week, and then what would be needed for when James Ross and his children came to stay in December, as Ann’s absence was always felt most keenly in that month. Lunch was followed by James falling asleep on the sofa for a good twenty minutes, then he sat around feeling fatigued and cloudy headed for another thirty before forcing himself to get up and see to the accounts.

The lists and piles of papers to be sorted through and checked were not so different from his daily work in Whitehall, even if he was dealing in tea rather than gunpowder, and was not enough to stop his laggardly attention wandering over the afternoon. The bookshelves in the study were so full of gilded titles that glinted in the autumn light that he ended up flicking through a few, and then had to ensure his skirts were not being crushed by the desk. And of course the accounts and several receipts fell victim to his propensity to drawing little cartoons in the margins of things. Age and illness may have slowed him down somewhat, but he doubted he would ever be free of that habit.

He stretched his arms above his head once he had finally applied himself long enough to finish his work, then flopped back in his chair. The stays enforced the posture that the Navy had given him, so it was rather a strange straight backed flop with his shoulders against the back of the chair. He huffed loudly, and dug the heels of his silk slippers into the floor to push himself back from the desk so he could straighten his legs out.

He ran his hand over the quilted leather armrest, then held his hand up to see how the ring on his finger, only tarnished slightly by age, looked against the lingering tan on his skin. The lace of his blouse looked pretty, as lace always did, and satin was always lovely, his eyes trailing up the flowers on his unfashionably tight sleeve, then down over the rather old fashioned fall of his skirts, and did not feel as light as he had this morning.

He could have captained _Warrior_. They would have given it to him if he had asked, and instead James had recommended Cochrane who had distinguished himself so in the Crimea and China. The brand new design of ship deserved a younger man who was the future of the Royal Navy, and who still had enough of himself to wear out by being too ambitious and brave. 

He missed the front door opening below, but heard Francis talking on the stairs. He set his eyes on the half open door, watching Francis almost pass the study before he doubled back to breeze contentedly into the room. 

James could remember the early years of their knowing one another, when Francis was so weighed down by his age and his position that it made him seem older than his years. Now he wore it with a contented sort of acceptance, and looked a fine picture of manhood in his well tailored trousers and charcoal grey checked coat that showed off every broad, sturdy, soft curving part of him.

"How were the great and good of the future?" James asked, summoning up a smile for Francis.

"Precocious and talented,” Francis sighed as he came to lean on the front of the desk. “As are all who are recommended for the special navigation and geographic training." 

The smile James mustered for that bit of light hearted teasing about his own advancement and competence in these studies was weak, he could tell, and he adjusted himself to sit upright in his chair so he was not quite so pathetic. 

Francis looked over him, then at the orderly pile of receipts James had pushed to the edge of the table, the top one bearing a brief, slightly smudged drawing of someone looking very bored at their work. 

“Come away from this now,” Francis said in that soft way of his. “You have had a long two weeks followed by a long day at the end of it. Do not overtax yourself.”

“I am quite aware,” James said rather tersely. 

Francis blinked at him slowly, then straightened, the look on his face making James feel both more fractious and more foolish. 

"James - ” Francis began, then glanced over his shoulder as Daisy walked quickly past the door with a tray in her hands. “Come next door and have tea."

James huffed out a breath, glad of the freedom that the lack of starched collar and cravat gave him as he rolled out a stiffness in his neck before standing. 

Tea did have a habit of making one feel less irritable. He allowed the mindless process of pouring milk and tea and dropping sugar into his cup from too great a height, and the first warm sweet sip rid him of enough peevishness for James to reach an apologetic hand out to Francis, letting it rest on the settee between his skirts and Francis’ knee. 

“When Henry, the younger one that is, was asking me a bag full of questions about sailing last night,” James said, perching his saucer on his knee. “I was struck by how soon he would be going off to sea, if it remains his desire. Charlotte would never let him go as young as we were, yet it will come with appalling swiftness and - I remember when he was born, Francis! We were going to the Crimea.”

“I remember it,” Francis said evenly, placing his tea down on the table and picking up a biscuit. 

“Eight years ago I was a venturesome captain, dashing about bombardments and being mentioned in the gazette. _Sixteen_ years ago I was the rising star of the Royal Navy, and now I am the one who is knighted and beached, making the recommendations to raise the new stars up through the ranks and onto ships that are beyond _anything_ we could have imagined at their age.”

“Now you know something of what I felt when faced with you at Woolwich,” Francis said with a slightly self-deprecating smile, and James reached out to touch his leg.

“I see that I should have taken those complaints of old age more seriously.” James was pleased when Francis shook his head in amusement, yet an unbidden coldness curled up from James’ stomach to lodge at the base of his throat. The porcelain cup on his knee clinked as he curled his fist into his skirt, and he took a breath to try and banish the feeling as Francis watched him closely.

They were far beyond keeping things to themselves out of long ingrained habit or a stumbling uncertainty about their union, but James had no idea how to voice a sudden and horrible awareness of the mortality of the steadiest point in his life. Those seventeen years Francis had on James looming large as an impassible ridge of ice.

“It is only,” James swallowed. “I am not yet as old as you were when we first met.”

James watched as Francis absorbed that, the expressions that crossed his face, and gripped his hand tightly. Their ages had always been apparent to Francis, James knew that, and he hated to remind him of it now. He hated to admit to his youth, a thing that he had burnt through with thoughtless bravado, and hated to think how apparent the fragility of his life must be to Francis who had almost watched James die a fading, pitiful death before they had much of a chance to be anything at all to one another.

“The learning was rather forced upon me, but there is no good in holding on to youth too tightly. Or anything really.” Francis smiled ruefully, flexing his gentle fingers around James’. “Seeing how low Ross has become since Ann… if you had succumbed to the illnesses you gained in China, I know would have fared little better.”

“ _Oh_ , Francis --” James breathed, heart clenching at the thought. 

“But you did not! You are sitting before me. Your constitution may not be as it was, but it could be far worse, James. You have a thread of steel to you that I do not think you will ever fully recognise. _Every_ thing that I have seen the world cast your way you have borne remarkably. When I do d-” Francis snapped his mouth shut and cleared his throat. James hurried to set his tea down so he could grasp Francis’ hand in both of his, forcing down that coldness clogging his throat. “I do not see that strength ever failing you,” Francis said with one of his encouraging smiles, running his thumb over the Claddagh. “You are allowed some weakness James, it will not caught you to fall apart.”

“I know,” James said, forcing some brightness. “It is rather a struggle sometimes. Not what I am used to.”

“I understand,” Francis nodded, a twinkle of mirth in his eye. “I am still unused to you forcing me to feel younger than my old bones.”

“Is that so?”

“Indeed,” Francis agreed, blushing faintly. “I doubt many men my age are ‘roused’ of a morning by anyone as delightful as you are,” he said sincerely. “At least without paying for it.”

James barked out a laugh at the bone dry comment, hand going to his middle when the stays pushed back against his belly and had his breath catching. 

“See here. Far be it from me to instruct you on how to dress in any fashion, but will you loosen those laces!”

“I can breathe.”

“But are you comfortable?"

James huffed and set about undoing the cloth covered buttons running up the font of his bodice until it was open enough for him to reach the back of his stays. He had tied the knot far too well and could not unpick it, so with another huff he turned his back to Francis expectantly. 

“Does that feel better?” Francis asked over James’ shoulder as he put some slack into his lacing.

His hand was a gentle pressure at James’ lower back, his knee knocking against James’ thigh. Maybe it was closeness, or the easier breath he took, or that he had not indulged this morning after a good few weeks going without, but James found himself smiling rather rascalishly as he angled himself into Francis. “I might feel better if I had a kiss?”

Francis smiled, irrepressible and broad, and chastely kissed the edge of James’ mouth. James twisted to kiss Francis properly as he slipped his arms around James’ waist, the fingers of one hand running along the thin cotton between the steel stays whilst the other smoothed over the pleats of James’ skirt. James tilted his head, flicking his hair out of the way as Francis laid kisses to his neck, the hand on his skirt coming to press down over James’ hardening prick. 

“Would you like to go to bed?” Francis asked, lips pressing against the skin behind James’ ear. 

  
  


* ***** *

James did not feel nearly fifty and of unsteady constitution as he checked the landing was empty before hurrying upstairs in a state of déshabillé with Francis’ hand in his. In fact he did not think anything of it as they hurried into his room.

James pulled off his bodice and hurried to undo his blouse as Francis removed his coat and waistcoat, the slightly scrambling pace slowed as they fell into another kiss. Familiarity moved them forwards, as it tended to these days, but James was yet to fail in his appreciation for Francis. He explored the breadth of his back and shoulders with sweeps of his hands as he pushed his braces down his arms, and smoothed over the solidness of his middle on the way to delve his fingers into Francis’ trousers.

The fine Irish linen of James' blouse slipped softly over his skin when Francis pushed it off his shoulders. He directed his attentions to James' throat and collarbones, a strong arm secure about his waist, and James vaguely wished for a moment that he had a bosom to aesthetically heave as a delightful tremble ran through him.

There was a moment where they both fumbled over the ties of James' skirt, the sturdy strings almost becoming tangled when Francis pushed James' hand away and did it himself. He steadied James' by his waist as he stepped out of the pool of silk and linen, his hands remaining on the curve of the stays as they stepped towards the bed.

They shed garments as they went, until Francis was down to his shirt that did little to hide his desire that brushed against James when he placed his knees on the bed so he might sit in Francis’ lap, easing forward until their groins pressed together. Francis’ hands immediately went to James’ legs, following the zig-zag pattern on his stockings up under his chemise and drawers to stroke along the lace tops and the skin of James’ thighs. 

“How do you want me?” James asked, canting his hips down to get some friction on his prick. 

“We can stay like this,” Francis offered, even as he became somewhat distracted by undoing the buttons of James’ drawers and pulling them down over his backside. 

“Don’t be coy with your hands on my arse,” James tutted, placing a foot on the floor as he tilted to the side to grab the pot from the bedside table.

“That does not mean I cannot be a gentleman,” Francis muttered as he took the pot from James before he could dip his fingers in to it, slicking his own instead. 

Francis was always a gentleman. Even when long standing closeness and intimacy lead to sometimes efficient love making, Francis never took James’ likes for granted; a thing that sometimes made James feel warm and treasured, and others horribly impatient to get to it. 

He felt both warm and impatient now as Francis rubbed his fingers over him. Just as he was about to huff, Francis slipped two fingers into him slowly, mouth quirked in a knowing smile. James gripped onto Francis’ shoulder for balance as he began to roll his hips, the movement making a shoulder strap of his stays slip down his arm, and he gasped when Francis followed its path with kisses. 

James could push Francis down on the bed and work himself energetically on Francis’ cock. They both had a preference for that, and some vigorous action would be a very satisfying way to lay some of his anxieties to rest about youth and fitness and the like (James had always maintained that a good way to clear the cobwebs was a long, lively ride).

That was no reason to do a thing, though. Lovemaking could, sometimes, do a lot to help your ills, but it was very rarely the curing of them. Which, he thought as he panted into Francis’ hair, heat rolling wonderfully through his abdomen, was ironically something he had come to know with age. 

James clambered out of Francis' lap and onto the bed. He swayed in close to give him more kisses, grasping Francis' hand and pulling him to follow James as he went to lay down on his side in the middle of the bed, head resting on the pillows. James did not mind how the position made the steel boning of his stays press gently into his side as wriggled out of his draws, kicking them down to the end of the bed along with his old quilted blanket. That done, he arranged himself so Francis could curl in close against his back, knees tucked up against James’ thighs, his prick a hot, solid line against the curve of his arse.

Francis ran his hand slowly up James' leg to hike up his chemise, kissing the ball of his shoulder as he shifted around, and James sighed at the delicious, blunt pressure of being breached. He reaching behind himself to grasp at Francis and hauled him in closer, canting his hips back greedily, the both of them groaning when Francis was fully seated.

The grip Francis had on James’ hip was firm as he rocked slowly into him, leaving nipping kisses over the ends of the faded claw marks that reached the back of his shoulder. James’ breath caught, flexing his fingers on Francis’ thigh, digging his nails in hard enough for Francis to swallow down a moan. 

The laces of his corset were still tight enough to make James feel a little light headed as his breathing came more rapidly. His prick, that was half trapped by soft linen and his own legs, throbbed insistently, and James reached down to palm at it, letting the more insistent pace tilt his hips forward.

He ended up on his knees, held up on an elbow with his head hanging between his shoulders. Francis was rocking in to him at the angle he knew James liked best, and James tried to hold down the gasps and moans that were being pushed out of him as he worked his fist over his own cock.

James could feel the tug of Francis unlacing him (not fully, he had been hit with unlaced stays enough times to know not to pull the cord out), his pleasure becoming sharp when he finally drew in a great breath. Then another, which turned into a curse of surprise when Francis’ lay against his back, his hand making its way up inside the loosened garment to lay against James’ stomach.

Francis pressed his face into James’ hair, his thrusts taking on a ragged edge, and James expected a comment about how lovely he was, how he would always be lovely no matter his age. Things that he knew Francis at least held to be true. But instead Francis rumbled, honey smooth, “you still smell of gunpowder,” against his ear, and something about it had James reaching the end of his endurance.

He felt a heavy exhaustion come over him, afterwards, the flares of sensation as Francis reached his end and pulled away, then the slow warm slide that was quickly wiped away, dulled as if coming through a thick fog. James managed to sit up to haul everything he still wore over his head in one mass to toss over the side of the bed, pushing his hair off his face and allowing his head to be tilted back for Francis to kiss him.

He pulled Francis in for another kiss when he tried to move away, and then carried on pulling at him until they were curled together again. Francis wrapped his arm around James when he rested his head on Francis’ shoulder, listening to his rapid heartbeat slow as he placed his hand on Francis’ flushed chest. 

“Your dress will crease,” Francis advised quietly, fingers trailing through James hair. 

“Creases come out easier than spendings,” James muttered, kissing Francis’ flushed, warm skin when a laugh rumbled out of him, “I love you so very much.”

Francis’ fingers paused in his hair, and James heard his answering, “and I love you,” as he slipped off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. That was a JFJ emotional rollercoaster, wasn't it.
> 
> Thank you Lenka and norvegiae for making colour choices for me.   
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
